


Black & Gold

by scrapbullet



Category: Labyrinth (1986), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Erik as Jareth, Goblins, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Ah, by the way. I’ve asked your father for your hand in marriage. He’s consented. You are to move in to the palace post-haste.”</i>
</p><p>Charles has lived in the Underground since he was a boy. Fostered to a pair of affectionate Goblins, who don't seem to mind so much when the Goblin King steals him away for chess, he works in the stables by day, and dreams strange things by night. Keeping his telepathy a secret is taking its toll, and when the King demands his hand in marriage - well, he's not quite sure what he's going to do, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for the_me09; though I'm not quite sure when it'll be finished. But, here it is anyway darling <3

Charles doesn’t remember the Above Ground. He was but a boy when he was wished away, or so the elderly goblin that works in the palace kitchen says, and a sweet thing at that. He’d, apparently, clung to the Goblin King with a grip so tight that he’d left bruises in his wake, and not even the mightiest of His servants could force Charles away, eyes filled with tears.

The King had took pity on Charles, scrap of a boy that he was, and instead of turning him into a goblin had fostered him to an enthusiastic young couple, and when he came of age, set Charles to work in the palace stables. The early mornings and long hours keep him fit – though the mask he is forced to wear in public, one of thick, cheap plaster; the stylised nose long and hooked to look similar to his Underground brethren, is a hindrance, stifling – but above all he is content. 

It’s a good life, and truthfully, he couldn’t ask for more.

“Ya daydreamin’ again,” Cookie chastises. The little goblin, short and rotund, brandishes a broom like a lethal weapon, and she eyes Charles with all the shrewd alacrity of an elder woman. “I’ll be havin’ words with ya mam if ya don’t buck up ya ideas.” The broom handle thwaps into Charles’ backside with a resounding _whump_ , and his wordless sound of surprise makes her cackle, satisfied.

Charles sighs. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. My mind... it’s been wandering, as of late. The headaches have been getting worse.” Amongst other things, but Charles dare not mention it.

A stallion whinnies, stamping its feet. Cookie huffs, and when Charles manages to look her in the eye – or down, as is the case, chin tucked against his chest – she softens, her thoughts a warm barrage of affection.

That he can _feel_ her in this way terrifies him, and it shows.

“Charles, lad,” she says. “Ya blessed, and ya know it. There’s nay need for _this_ ,” she flaps a clawed hand, crinkling her nose. “ _This_... I cannae find me words, but ya got _talent_ boy and ya need no’ be afraid of i’.”

“If the King were to find out-”

“Oh pish. If Jareth were ta find ou’ ‘e’d be pleased as punch!” She smirks, perceptive. “An’ ya ‘is fav’rite.”

It’s no secret that the King favours him. His brethren have debated at length as to why Charles isn’t His heir apparent, but for all their gossip-mongering they never seem to hit on the real heart of the matter. Jareth, with his keen eyes and quick hands, looks at him as a predator would at its prey, and yet... there’s a certain _tenderness_ that filters through the tightly constructed walls of His mental shields. He visits, as always, on the first and third Saturday of every month to play chess, and His regard leaves Charles feeling hot all over; as if he’ll combust at any moment.

He blushes, thankful that his mask hides it, and clears his throat. “I wouldn’t say that-”

Cookie growls, and Charles, with self preservation in mind, shuts his mouth with an audible click.

Silence, but for the agitated rumble of displeasure from a Sphinx in desperate need of a good grooming; he sets to work with gusto, taking the distraction for what it is, brushing the golden coat until it shines and the deep purr that fills the air settles his frayed nerves. 

After some time he sets aside his brush. “Is that what you think?”

Cookie shrugs, hiking up her skirts whilst stepping over an impressive pile of dung. “Is wha’ i’ is, lad.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I want you to keep an eye on a boy, for me.”

Charles looks up from scrutinising the chess board with a cocked brow. “Hm? Ah, another has failed the labyrinth, then.”

Jareth smiles, all vicious shark teeth, though he is anything but pleased. “Not at all. The little idiot didn’t even try, just sat next to the grandfather clock until the time was up.” He sighs, and Charles is struck with how tired he looks; skin pale, shadows heavy beneath his eyes. “The boy is practically a mute, Charles; he doesn’t speak a word.”

“I’m sure he just needs some incentive,” Charles murmurs, moving a pawn.

Jareth – Erik, for that’s who he is, not only a mere title – shakes his head, though exhales heavily in amusement as he watches Charles make his move. “Your skills at this game are rudimentary at best – but no, I’m in need of your _specific_ skills.”

For a brief moment the heart in Charles’ chest stops beating. But no, no, of course not, Erik knows nothing, Charles has made sure of that. “Oh?”

A hum. “Yes. His feet. They’re quite... _inhuman_. I was hoping you’d help him acclimate to life in the Underground.” His eyes flick up. Though Charles cannot read but a single thought in his head, he needn’t, not now, when Erik’s eyes say it all; confidence in Charles’ abilities and trust, so much _trust_.

It’s a strange thing, that. He doesn’t quite know how he earned it. 

Charles swallows thickly. “Do you think he could be a half-breed, then?” 

Erik shrugs. His gaze flickers back to the chess board, no doubt pondering on a strategy. “Perhaps, though I’m unsure as to whether a troll would be brave enough to breed with a human. Regardless, you’re the best man for the job.” Bishop to d5. “Ah, by the way. I’ve asked your father for your hand in marriage. He’s consented. You are to move in to the palace post-haste.”

Charles chokes on air. Erik, with all the grace of a monarch, slaps him on the back until he wheezes, sucking in precious oxygen. “...I beg your pardon?”

The smile on Erik’s face is what one would call _offensively_ bland. “You’re welcome.”


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Marriage_!”

“Aye, dear, so you’ve said.”

Charles stares into space, absent-mindedly playing with his food and sloshing soup onto the kitchen table. Moppet – or mother, as Charles calls her – grumbles to herself as she wipes up the mess with a sodden dish rag before ladling a second helping of soup into her husband’s bowl. Said husband simply grunts and shakes his head as though too lazy to speak, a characteristic of most goblins his age, and enjoys his meal.

“Marriage,” Charles says again, dumbfounded. “But I don’t _understand_.”

Moppet sighs. “Your father’s got no brains, son, you know that, but he wouldn’t have agreed if he didn’t think it in your best interest at heart. He loves you, he does.”

Bleth nods, shaking his spoon at Charles in agreement.

Plonking her bottom onto the rickety little bench, Moppet appraises her son with a critical eye. He’s grown into a strong, strapping young lad, he has, but she remembers all too well the scrap of a child that had been brought to her nigh on twenty years ago. Aye, Charles had been small for his age, and unnourished, both in sustenance and in love. He’d cried and hid behind her skirts, the poor lamb, and it had taken hours to coax him into eating some broth and warmed milk.

But he’d been such a _sweet_ boy...

Still is.

“Jareth does nothing without reason,” she says, patting his knee. “If He thinks you’ll make a good consort, then you will, and though I think it mighty strange that He chose his bride from the peasants rather than the nobility, well, far be it for me to say otherwise. Besides! Jareth has always been interested in your well-being, even when you were a nipper. Kept his eye on you, he did.”

Picking at his soup Charles hums, though the contemplative frown remains. “He’s never shown any inclination toward me before, mother, and I’m just a stable boy. I know nothing of the ways of royalty; their proclivities are quite beyond me.”

Moppet pulls a face. “Yes, well. The nobility are a strange lot, lad, I don’t deny that.”

Bleth burps, settling back into his chair with primitive satisfaction.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

Charles grimaces, pushing his bowl away. “I have no say at all in the matter; perhaps I don’t wish to marry him. Perhaps I find his person repulsive and his- his regard-” Exhaling heavily in frustration he leans into his mothers hip, and she gladly welcomes him. “Perhaps I-”

“Pish. Who doesn’t like the King? He’s a good man, not like His forefathers at all.”

Charles bites his lip, murmuring to himself. “Yes, that’s rather the problem, isn’t it?”

Moppet prattles on. “But then, He’s been through a lot, that one, or so they say. His old man was quite the-” she clears her throat, looking over her shoulder as if the demons of the dead are listening in, slippery buggers. “Well, you know. It was a bit of a shock to us all, what he did to Him. Should’ve done more than shoving the old coot in an oubliette - don’t look at me like that, it were long before you were born, lad. Now, get. The palace is waiting for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hank is a sweet little boy with, yes, quite spectacular feet. Indeed, when Charles first enters the ante-chamber Hank is dangling from a chandelier, toes curled around the delicate gold filigree with an ease that is astounding. Clad in simple shirt and trousers he can’t be much older than seven, within the specific age margin wherein children of the Above Ground are most likely to be wished away, and when Charles reaches out with his thoughts Hank unknowingly embraces him; like mind to like mind.

Charles smiles to himself. It's heart warming to see a child so gleeful, so free, when once there had been only shame and fear. It leaves a residue, deep within, a tell-tale bruise upon the psyche, but such things no longer matter. Hank is here now. Safe. Erik, frightening as his bloodthirsty reputation is, looks after his people well.

“That’s very impressive. What else can you do?” Charles circles the room, hands clasped behind his back.

Hank startles, blushing. Shyly he flips himself down from his tenuous perch, landing squarely on his feet, bare toes a-wiggle. “I can run real fast,” he says, looking at Charles with blatant curiosity. “And my teacher at school says I’m real smart. I’m going to be a scientist when I grow up!”

It’s hard not to soak up Hank’s exuberant enthusiasm. It seeps from him in waves that encompass Charles in a heady gaiety, and he laughs softly, crouching down to the boys’ level. He can see why Erik didn’t turn him into a goblin; his thoughts are inherently structured, orderly, not like the mind of a child at all; Hank wouldn’t have settled in well with a foster family. 

He probes a little deeper, unbidden. Synapses spark with cohesive thought and idea, and beneath that, an awkward warmth that Charles realises is the centre of the boys’ very _being_. 

It’s quite beautiful.

Hank winces, just a little, rubbing his forehead. 

Yes, Hank is much too aware.

“Do you remember how you came to be here, Hank?” 

Blinking owlishly Hank looks at Charles with obvious surprise. “How did you know-”

Charles taps his nose. “A little bird told me.”

A blush spreads over his face. “Ah. My sister wished that the goblins would come take me away; she doesn’t like my feet; says it’s weird that I can grip a pen and write with them.” Hank crinkles his nose, and his expression says it all - _what do girls know?_ Charles laughs, giving in to the urge to ruffle the boys hair, who blushes profusely.

“Do you believe?” Charles settles his hands on Hank’s shoulders, unwilling to break apart mentally or physically. “Do you believe in goblins? In fairy tales?”

Hank scrunches up his nose again and shakes his head. Charles grins.

“Oh, Hank. I have so very much to show you...”


	5. Chapter 5

“Oubliettes... s’where you put summit you wants to forget about,” Hoggle says, keys jangling. “So I dunno why you wants to be lookin’. Nothin’ ‘ere but dust and bones.” Moving the plank of wood into position he turns the key in the rusty lock and pushes it open, expression grim. “You sure Jareth said you could come in ‘ere?”

“Yes, he knows I’m here.” Charles closes his eyes, bracing himself against a sudden rush of vertigo. “There are memories, in this place; too many memories.”

Its stagnant flavour is repugnant, the pervading sense of loss and futility clawing at his senses with such force that he feels light headed. Here, in the dark and the deep, the forgotten dwelt, alone. Here, they went slowly mad, and when they died they left their psychic imprint in the very rock that imprisoned them.

Charles swallows heavily, tasting bile. The utter _hopelessness_ of this place – whether those sent here deserved it or not, it’s a truly horrific way to cease to be.

“I’ve seen enough,” he says, finally. Hoggle huffs, but says not a word, closing the door and locking those impressions within; though they linger still, ignited, clinging to Charles as a leech would, draining him dry.

It’s a failed experiment. Charles is as pale as death, and Hoggle feels something akin to sympathy.

“’Ere, le’ me ‘elp you back – or else Jareth will ‘ave my ‘ead.”

Charles attempts a smile. Memento mori.


	6. Chapter 6

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Charles confesses. “I’m afraid this dancing nonsense is quite beyond me.”

Erik rolls his eyes, adjusting his stance to accommodate Charles’ two left feet. “It’s not all that difficult, Charles; I lead and you follow. It’s quite simple.”

“Oh, is that why I keep standing on your feet?”

Hank, situated quite comfortably in the corner of the ballroom, snickers behind his textbook.

Rolling his eyes Charles merely allows Erik to position him; chest to chest and close enough to inhale the aroma of heather that grows on the outer most walls of the labyrinth; intoxicating in its potency. Erik is quite the nimble-footed noble, each and every movement controlled, carefully planned, his concentration evident in the faint downturn of his brow, the sureness of his jaw. 

“I never did ask- why me?” One step left, then one back, Erik’s hand a welcome weight on his hip.

Erik simply shrugs a shoulder. “Why not?” He spins Charles round once with ease, before dipping him; smile mischievous before he plants a chaste kiss on Charles’ lips. Charles sputters at the indignity of it all.

“Truthfully,” Erik continues, pulling Charles upright and into his arms, “I had no intention of being trapped in wedded bliss with either one of Mizumi’s wretched daughters.”

“...So I’m the last resort, is that?”

“Charles is the first, second, third and last resort!” Hank exclaims with a childish scowl, before ducking back behind his textbook, face blushing red. 

“Indeed,” Erik eyes Hank with an admonishing glare – for little boys should not eavesdrop or interrupt their elders – but it is nothing compared to the thunderous expression Charles wears upon his face; a scowl to rival even Gan, the Goblin General with something of an acidic temperament. Erik swallows, but quickly gathers his composure... and his wits. “You are much too precious a friend, Charles, to be a last resort.”

Charles cocks a brow, hums genially, and promptly steps on his foot.

Erik grimaces. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Yes, yes you did.”

Hank stifles a laugh, snorting in amusement.


	7. Chapter 7

Charles knows he’s dreaming.

He doesn’t know how he got here; that’s always a good tell. He stands in amongst the rushes beside a lake, his bare feet sinking into the soft mud, and for a moment he breathes, trying to think, to order his chaotic thoughts - that smell, that sound, it isn’t _quite_ right, is it? The slick muck squelches between his toes. It begins to rain, pitter-patter on the lake, circling outward.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” he says out loud. Not even a raven’s caw answers him.

He is _distinctly_ unnerved.

“...You’re a handsome one.”

Charles turns. The man, clad head-to-toe in black, tilts his head. His face is obscured; the dull lustre of metal slick with water, but it’s the smile that allows that cold, sinking feeling to bloom in Charles’ gut. Wide and puckish it promises many things, none of them good, and when he steps forward Charles instinctively steps back, into the shallow water, murky with memory.

“Afraid?” The man laughs, a sound that is grating to both his physical and physic senses. Charles feels sick, nausea beating at his gullet, frantic. The lake gives him no protection, despite his affinity to it, the expansive pool a tool to calm his mind’s inner eye, as if even it is aware that a predator is near, that retreat is most assuredly best.

“I suppose you want me out of your pretty little head – most telepaths do.”

A breath; deep, fortifying. Charles stands his ground. “If you would.”

Cocking his head the intruder merely hums, frankly oozing amusement. “Ah, but you opened your thoughts to me, little telepath, and I find you _quite_ interesting. Tell me; are you as much of a freak as your darling King is, hm?” One step, and then another, and as he cups Charles’ cheek there is an unwelcome frisson of pain, sparking through his consciousness with a sinister intent. 

It is a pain unlike anything he’s ever felt before; an invasion, a rape, as this _ghoul_ tears through his defences with absolute ease. The barriers he’d erected against such an assault are pathetic against such an onslaught, crumbling, giving way, old memories dredged backwards, outward, memories he has long since ceased to remember.

Kurt.

Cain.

Hopelessness and the all encompassing feeling of being invisible, unwanted. A stranger in a foreign land.

Different.

Charles heaves, vomiting copiously into the murky water, spitting bile.

“...How rude. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

Grimacing at the acidic taste on his tongue, Charles wrenches his face away, stumbling ever back into the slurry. It soaks into his clothes, weighing him down, but instead of following him the stranger looks contemplative, appraising him with blatant lusty interest.

“Get out,” Charles slurs. He aches, right down to the marrow, though his indignation thrums around them, frenetic. “ _Get out_!”

Water gushes down his throat. The man laughs, muffled by the roar in Charles’ ears, and when he wakes he is drenched in sweat, chest heaving, oxygen eluding him.

Beside him, curled up on top of the duvet, Hank snuffles, frowning in his sleep; no doubt having sought comfort after a bad dream. 

It seems that nightmares run amok this night.


	8. Chapter 8

One doesn’t just casually walk through the labyrinth without an escort. It’s dangerous, even for the inhabitants of the city, but let it be known that Hank McCoy has little to no sense of self-preservation.

In short; he’s lost.

Very, very lost.

The north-western border is wooded and overgrown, and when the dry wind blows just right it carries, faintly, the sulphuric odour of the Bog of Eternal Stench, and with it a certain sense of danger. Hank is a clever little boy – or so said his mom and dad, before the change, the wish – but even he is not immune to the prospect of exploration and adventure, and of course, now he’s paying for it.

Honestly? He wants to cry, but he doesn’t. He’s a big boy and can look after himself.

It doesn’t stop him from being scared, though.

A sudden, rumbling roar has his heart beating hard and fast, threatening to pop right out of his chest. It’s followed by a series of wounded grunts, and the high pitched squabbling of the Lesser Goblin Guard, and upon peeking around a spectacularly large rock formation Hank gets a glimpse of the poor creature they’re tormenting.

The creature is a hundred feet tall, or so it seems to Hank. Logically he knows it isn’t, but it’s just so _big_. Big and large and hairy and undoubtedly frightened, the little goblins leering and cackling, poking it with nipper sticks. The tiny creatures on the end bite, and bite _hard_ , and the agonised bellow sets Hank’s anger alight.

He’s learnt much under Charles’ brief tutelage. Placing his hands to his mouth, cupped together, he attempts a deep, agonised holler; the caw of a feral beast that Charles says wanders the Bog that rather likes the taste of goblins. The Lesser Goblin Guard babble in fright, looking about them, their nipper sticks chomping at bare air, and the tormented creature takes the chance for what it is – rearing up and bashing one, and then another round the head.

Lesser Goblins aren’t exactly renowned for their bravery.

They turn tail and run, squawking all the way.

Snickering to himself Hank ducks behind a boulder to watch them flee. It’s not exactly _mature_ , but even geniuses have to let their hair loose sometimes, right? All work and no play make Hank a dull boy. He’s quite happy to watch them scamper – taking note of the general direction, in the vain hope that the idiots actually know their way back to the city – glasses fogging up from damp and laughter

That is, until a big, furry paw settles onto his shoulder.

“Whoa, whoa I... ah... I come in peace?”

The beast cocks its head, large ears flapping curiously. Its face is unusually expressive for a monstrous looking thing, and it looks at Hank’s bare feet with obvious fascination.

“Help Ludo?”

Hank blinks, hands raised in supplication, palms outward. “Uh, yeah?”

Ludo practically _purrs_ , the rocks beneath their feet vibrating in bestial happiness. Hank finds himself swallowed up in arms thick as logs; a hug like none other, fur tickling his nose.

“ _...nk! Hank!_ ”

Hank grimaces, squirming, looking up at Ludo knowing all too well how much trouble he’s in. There’s a faint tug in his head, and at his feet a smooth globe of liquid metal rolls to a stop, thrumming faintly. “Think you could return the favour big guy?”

Ludo huffs, a close approximation of a laugh, and pats Hank on the head.

...Yeah, no luck with that, then.

-

Suffice to say that Hank goes to bed without dessert that night.

It’s all very unfair.


	9. Chapter 9

“This is confusing.”

“Sarah Williams was quite the confusing mortal, or so I hear.”

Ludo heaves a heavy sigh, sprawled out on Hank’s bedroom floor. Tucking his chin onto the mattress he inclines his head for a scratch, which Hank obliges, before closes his eyes.

He has the right idea.

Hank, however, does not.

“Is she the King’s mother?”

Charles snorts, but then, he’s never professed to be a gentleman. He adjusts the heavy book on his lap. “I’m afraid not. Heirs aren’t always born, Hank, sometimes they are chosen. My mother once told me that the last King, Shaw, was quite infertile, and so chose our King as his successor.”

Hank pulls a face. He plucks at the duvet, all sullen child that doesn’t want to go to bed, stalling Charles as much as he possibly can. “He’s as stubborn as she is.”

“...I wouldn’t let him hear you say that if I were you, dove.”

An orb spins on the lacquered floorboards, startling a dozing Ludo. The beast bats at it with a paw before snuffling and settling back down to snooze, but Hank knows better than to ignore an entrance when he sees one. 

“You should know by now that walls have ears,” Erik says, leaning against the open doorway. He looks tired, dressed in lounge wear of black and maroon and yet still managing to look austere, arms folded across his chest. He inclines his head to the tome laid out on his fiancé’s lap. “However, I’m going to take it as a compliment. She was quite the formidable Queen.”

Flushing, Hank pulls the duvet up to his chest. He mumbles something incomprehensible that might _just_ be an apology, and as Erik manipulates the ball of liquid metal up onto the bed, Hank grips it in his hands, taking the offering for what it is.

Adoption.

He’s not stupid, after all.

Well, maybe just a little. He _did_ get lost in the Labyrinth. 

“Do you consent to be my heir, Hank McCoy?”

The orb exudes an inviting warmth, all but pulsating with suppressed energy. It’s a comforting sensation, really, like that hot ache he gets in his chest when he thinks of _home_ ; Charles with his books and horses, Erik with his political lessons masked as childish games.

Charles tucks in the edge of the duvet. Erik does nothing, in silent observation.

“I consent.”

The heat expands, consumes, settles. Hank smiles.


	10. Chapter 10

Parties have never been his forte. To be frank, he detests them, the power-hungry and the malicious rabble circulating the ballroom as if they own it instead of he, Erik, Jareth, Goblin King. But this isn’t some distraction, some barefaced confirmation of wealth and connections; this is a celebration of their impending nuptials, though the guests don’t appear to be much in the way of celebrating.

On the contrary; they eye Charles like a piece of meat.

“Relax, or else the vultures will swarm,” Erik murmurs, tucking Charles against him, protective. 

“I rather fear they have already,” Charles replies.

Erik hums, and the band of warm metal encircling Charles’ wrist heats; a balm to soothe his fears. It’s an infinitesimal show of Erik’s power, in truth, but as an engagement gift it is not only beautiful but practical. 

Metal to flesh and flesh to metal; Erik feels it, always. Forever protected.

“You’re of interest to them, little bugs that they are,” and the orchestra wavers as Mizumi interrupts, curtsying before them, her gaze full of blatant disgust. “The King is to wed a peasant boy... such controversy!”

Erik stiffens. Liquid metal tightens imperceptibly, grinding against bone and Charles grimaces; the hatred his soon-to-be husband exudes all too apparent.

“My Lady,” Erik grits – and with a flex of his fingers the Charles’ bracelet loosens, vibrating faintly as if in apology – “your presence is... most surprising.”

The Queen of Moraine simply shrugs. “The invitation to my House must have been misplaced, of course. May I introduce my daughters; Moulin and Drumlin.” She smiles, and it is as fierce as it is beautiful. “I believe your dearest Father and I had an arrangement.”

“I won’t marry one of your daughters, Mizumi.”

She pauses, expression utterly blank. There is something decidedly tainted beneath such an elegant mask, Charles surmises, and though he longs to speak he holds his tongue, eying the three women with what he hopes is _polite_ curiosity.

Moulin clearly takes after her mother in looks, but it is clearly Drumlin that retains that very same taint within. It pushes against the barriers of Charles’ mind and, curious, he reaches out and isn’t shocked to feel... something repulsive, rotten. It makes him feel winded, almost nauseated, and he pulls back, retreating to fortify his thoughts.

“...I was promised-”

Baring his teeth Erik snarls, and there, that hidden temper is as sharp and poisonous as a snake bite. “I don’t give a damn what Shaw promised you; he’s dead and his Will no longer defiles my Kingdom. His body rots in the mausoleum, Mizumi. You’re quite welcome to wed one of your daughters to his bloated corpse, _if you so desire_.”

Mizumi winces. Drumlin glowers, shifting her hefty weight from one foot to the other.

Moulin, however, appears disinterested.

“ _Leave_.”

She does, and her daughters follow.

Erik all but wilts, though his posture remains ramrod straight, guarded. Charles grips his hand, feels it shudder, and presses against the outermost edges of Erik’s defences; _be at ease_. “Seems it wasn’t me you needed to worry about.”

Erik huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “She brings out the worst in me.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Raven, you’re a paragon of loveliness.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere.”

Raven, High Queen of the Changelings, slouches in her seat like a common peasant-girl. Today her skin is a magnificent aquamarine hue, her fingers long and elegant as she taps an idle rhythm on the table-top, tip-tap, tip-tap, the nail of her index finger lengthening as the sequence progresses.

She looks bored, which, whilst not unusual, is still something of a worry.

“How long have we known each other?” Charles plucks at a doily – the lace delicate and yellowed with age, probably a remnant from the reign of a Goblin Queen long since passed – and eyes Raven with trepidation.

Raven shrugs, crossing one ankle over the other. “A while. Why?”

“Did you ever foresee-”

With an inelegant snort Raven waves Charles off, her full lips twitching into a smile. “That the great and terrible Jareth would ask for your hand in marriage? Possibly. Maybe. But telling you would have ruined my fun.”

Charles shakes his head. “You’re a monster.”

“No, just... practical.” Pouring herself a cup of danderweed tea she uses the hooked edge of her lengthened fingernail to catch the handle of the china sugar bowl, popping not one but two lumps into the steaming liquid. “Azazel, however, now _he’s_ a monster.”

Charles flushes. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your nightly escapades to yourself, Raven.”

Their friendship is an odd one, perhaps even more so than the connection between a Goblin King and a peasant boy. The High Queen isn’t known for being tolerant of those with lesser talents – her husband, the King Consort, has a fascinating teleportation ability inherited from his Eastern brethren – and so the court had been scandalised when Raven had thrown aside decorum and invited Charles to tea so many years ago. 

So many years. The passage of time is sometimes quite frightening.

Humans of the Above Ground are anathema to Raven; that she’d seek an alliance with one of those lucky souls to have been wished to the Underground... for a time, Charles had been wary of such a friendship. Kept his distance. Raven, however, has a way of wriggling her way into ones affections, and once he’d learnt to _trust_ , well, he’s never looked back.

“Do you think he loves me?” 

She cocks her head, frowning. “Marriage isn’t about love, Charles; it’s an alliance. In seeking a husband within his own domain Erik is forging ties with the common people, thus inviting them to love him. He’s a good King, but a distant one.” She sips at her tea, eyes distant. “He chose you because you have a connection; a friendship, but... I can’t speak for him, Charles, you know that-”

Charles nods, a lead weight heavy in his breast. “Yes, I know-”

“-but truthfully, the look in his eyes. Oh, Charles, the way he looks at you.” Raven smiles the smile of a love struck maiden and Charles absently wonders whether she’s been reading those dreadful harlequin romances she so favours. “It’s like you’re the only one in the room that matters.”

Honestly, he hasn’t noticed. Erik is a man rarely taken to show his feelings, guarding them to the best of his ability. For the most part Charles honours that unspoken agreement, though Erik knows nothing of his ability; that he not pry too deep, though he is sorely tempted.

Erik is the enigma, not Charles. It is Erik that is so very fascinating, so restless and yet so _controlled_.

Erik is... _Erik_.

“...and what of you?”

Charles blinks, absent-mindedly stirring his own cup of danderweed tea. “What do you mean?”

Cocking a brow Raven beckons to a sweet little changeling girl – one that accompanies her everywhere, dark haired and with a sweet disposition; Lorrie, Charles recalls, remembering an instance where she had sat with Hank and exclaimed over Ludo’s fur – and whispers in her ear. Lorrie grins and eyes Charles with mischief, not surprising given her kind, and plucks a lily from the garden before rushing away. “Do _you_ love him?” Raven asks.

“I- I don’t know.” Does he? Does he truly? “Wait, where did you send the girl-?”

The smirk that overcomes Raven’s elegant features can only be described as _predatory_. “Why, I sent her to your husband-to-be, Charles, that’s all. I’m sure Erik will love the flower you sent him.”

Charles colours red, exasperated.


	12. Chapter 12

One does not simply question the King, not if they want to keep their tongue.

Only Charles has that privilege, truly. Long ago there was a boy, a brilliant boy, but shy, and Erik had sat the youngling on his knee – though he himself was but a few months into the Kingship and clueless, besides – and glimpsed the past in a crystal ball.

(There aren’t many of those left, those left over from Shaw’s tyrannical reign. But, back then, he’d had only the council of Frost; had given her his misguided trust, used the tools of his predecessor willingly with no thought as to the consequences.)

He’d been horrified. His heart had yet to grow cold, still so young and impressionable, and as Cain Marko failed the labyrinth intentionally he had sworn to himself that he’d always have the best interests of his charges at heart, no matter their species. The abuses of the orphan boy lay heavy on his mind, and, gently touching the swollen and purpling cheek, he did the one thing that he, perhaps, shouldn’t have.

He failed to turn Charles into a goblin.

Ah, but they wouldn’t be where they are now, would they? Perhaps he had known, those many years ago. Perhaps not. All that matters is that, on the eve of midsummer, with the magic of the Underground swelling with rampant desire, Erik looks upon Charles and _wants_.

Such want is so very dangerous.

“I can see why Hank was so cowed; if looks could kill.”

Erik simply lifts a shoulder, slouching further into the throne.

Charles settles himself onto the stone dais with a profound sigh, jamming his shoulder against Erik’s leg until he’s comfortable. Sweat beads on the back of his neck; the day uncommonly balmy, and the leather-bound tome in his hands is not unusual, for it’s rare to find Charles without his head in a book. 

They sit, for a time. It’s not unusual, with Erik’s duties, and the presence of his friend is decidedly... soothing. 

“So, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or are you going to continue looking so damn surly?”

Erik grunts, nudging Charles with his foot. The muted huff of protest makes his lips twitch. “A King has many duties, my dear Charles.”

Charles pulls a face. “Yes, well. I imagine sitting on ones backside all day counts as a ‘duty’.”

He missed this, when he was a boy. He had no companions under Shaw’s reign, at least, not one like Charles.

“Impudent welp,” Erik cards his fingers through Charles’ hair, sifting the softness between the pads of index and thumb. “Politics,” he says, finally. “I dislike it, so. Mizumi is causing a ruckus amongst the Fae Council; a promise made is a promise kept, after all, and if I do not adhere to my dear, deceased _Father’s_ will, then there will be hell to pay.”

“You don’t enjoy being told what to do,” Charles surmises.

“We’ve always been self-sufficient, though exotic trade will certainly suffer,” Erik sighs. “The Magic of the Labyrinth is earth-bound, not born of outside sources, and as for our populace- as you know all too well, my darling Charles, there are always those willing to wish the unwanted to us.”

“But?” Charles closes his book, chin resting on Erik’s knee.

“It could make other things a little... difficult.”

“Ah.”

“...Quite.”


End file.
